


Off The Trail

by laetificat



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 01:04:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16629935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laetificat/pseuds/laetificat
Summary: Arthur may not be the best teacher, but there are plenty of things he can show John.Pre-game. No spoilers. Pretty much PWP.





	Off The Trail

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is what the kids call "id fic". it's certainly very self indulgent. 
> 
> in my headcanon this takes place a little bit before Abigail comes into the camp, so John is about 21 and Arthur 31-ish. younger, more innocent days for our boys.

Of all things John expected to be dealing with when he woke up that morning, chasing chickens through a forest sure as hell wasn’t one of them. 

It wasn't one of their better camp locations, being bisected by a muddy creek and a number of ancient cedar trees. But desperate times made for desperate men, and the flight out of Galena had been desperate indeed. Javier was still walking with a limp, his entire right side a mess of bruises from the fall from his horse during the run from the lawmen; Miss Grimshaw had dug the shotgun pellets out from Bill's shoulder and chest but he languished in a wound fever. Two of the wagons bore scorch marks down the sides. Worst of all, they’d only made out with a little over three hundred dollars all told, a miserable take given the price they'd paid in wounds and ammo. Dutch, in a towering anger, had stopped them in the first place which afforded them some decent cover and immediately set them to planning the next job. 

They were all of them tired and distracted, so maybe it wasn’t anyone’s fault that nobody was watching the chickens until the coyotes arrived. The chickens, of course, scattered. Pearson had kicked up such a fuss that John and Arthur had agreed to help him catch the damn things, to shut him up if nothing else. 

The air under the trees was hot and close, full of the sounds of singing insects, punctuated occasionally by birds overhead or the far-off call of a lonesome elk. John was half hoping they'd come to a river or pond soon, so he could dunk his head and cool off a little.

“You see anything yet?” John asked, glancing over at Arthur, who was walking parallel to him a little distance through the trees, chewing meditively on a toothpick.

“Nope,” Arthur replied. As always, he seemed perfectly comfortable in his surroundings, content to exist within them. John could never figure out what aspect of the man made him appear to always be at home in places like this, as if he was born to live a life among the forests and hills. Like Dutch, he seemed to be a creature of of the fading West, a man born a shade too late for his soul. 

John grunted his frustration and went back to scanning the ground and underbrush for sign of the itinerant chickens. 

“What the hell is Pearson doing keeping these goddamn birds anyhow?” He groused. “They're probably halfway down some coyote's gullet by now.”

“Nah,” Arthur responded, a strange tone in his voice. “They're back down by the camp, hidin’ under Miss Grimshaw's wagon. I saw them before we left.”

It took John's heat-addled mind a moment to process this. He whirled around to face Arthur, who was leaning against a tree and grinning at him like a goddamn fool, toothpick cocked in the corner of his mouth. 

“The hell you mean they're _back at the damn camp_?” John choked out, almost yelling and not caring who or what heard him. “You mean we've hiked all the way out here for no goddamn reason? The hell are you playin’ at, Morgan?

“I'm playin’,” Arthur replied, stepping down off the roots of the tree and coming over to John, tossing his toothpick aside with a flick of his fingers, “at gettin’ you alone for a little while.” 

And with that he stepped in and kissed John, one hand sliding into John's sweat-damp hair and the other pulling him close enough to feel that Arthur was already hard. 

John briefly considered protesting a little more, but it had been too long since they were last together -- weeks, maybe months, not since that drafty shepherd's hut in the mountains, shivering under a scratchy wool blanket but keeping each other warm in other ways. Too long since John had any relief besides his own hand. So he kissed Arthur back, hungrily, all tongue and teeth catching his lower lip, groaning against his mouth as Arthur backed him against the nearest tree. 

“You coulda.. just fuckin’ asked..,” he gasped out as Arthur moved to kissing his neck, licking the sweat from his skin, and he could take a moment to breathe. Arthur’s hands were already fumbling at his belt.

“This way was more interestin’,” Arthur murmured against his throat, his beard scratching at John’s skin. John let his head fall back against the rough tree bark, enjoying the sight of the sun through the leaves above them. 

“For you maybe. I call it a.. goddamn.. inconvenience.. ahh, fuck.” Arthur had succeeded in slipping his belt and pushed down John’s trousers to fall around his boots, exposing his skin to the warm summer air and the heat of Arthur’s hand around his cock. 

Arthur stopped, though, and leaned back a little, squinting at him from under the brim of his hat. 

“Am I hearin’ you right? Did you just call this an _inconvenience_ , boy?” He emphasised those last words with a squeeze of his hand. John made an involuntary noise, fingers digging into the tree trunk behind him. 

“Fuck, Arthur, no, I --”

His words were cut off by Arthur grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him, hard, bodily turning him around against the tree. The bark scraped his thigh and palms and John yelped in pain, confused. Arthur pressed suddenly against him, all his considerable weight pushing John against the trunk. Arthur’s breath was hot against the side of his face, his still-clothed hips grinding against John’s naked ass. 

“The hell are you doin’?” John grunted, somewhere between shocked and more than a little turned on at the strength of Arthur’s lust. A few of their previous encounters had had this flavor, each of them using the other to work out frustrations that they couldn’t find release for elsewhere, leaving teeth marks and the occasional bruise -- but never this intense.

“I’m gonna show you an inconvenience.” A splayed hand caressed the back of John’s thigh, sliding up between his legs until he shivered. He pushed up the long tail of John's shirt, hitching it around his hips. Then Arthur's weight was gone, from the sounds of it because he was taking a few steps back. “Stay still, boy. If you move, I’m turnin’ around and leavin’ you here.”

John was tempted to curse and step away anyway, but he knew Arthur to be a man of his word, and besides he was too damn aroused to want to do anything that would deprive him of the possibility of a good hard fuck. Nor did he want to lose Arthur's trust and regard, so recently gained. So he stayed there, only shifting a little to make himself more comfortable, one hand on the trunk of the tree, bare ass cooled by a thin breeze whispering through the forest.

“Now ain't that a pretty sight,” Arthur drawled from behind him. “I oughta draw you like this, Marston.” There was a small noise, which John recognised as the sound of Arthur undoing his gunbelts and letting them drop to the ground. John let out a breath, feeling a wave of embarrassment despite himself. Standing here half naked like a goddamn kid awaiting the switch --

He realised what was going to happen a half second before it did, but it didn't make the snap of Arthur's heavy leather belt across his ass any less shocking, any less of a lightning bolt of pain that rolled up through his body and back down again. John let out a shout of surprise and almost whipped around, affronted. He caught sight of Arthur behind him and slightly to one side as he began to turn. The older man was watching him shrewdly, cheeks a little flushed, his drawers and shirt open enough to let his hard-on show. He pointed at John with the hand that held his belt, which was doubled over and the buckle missing. 

“I said stay there, boy. Or you ain't gettin’ anythin’ else from me besides a nod hello in the mornings.” 

John growled at that, breathing hard. After a long moment, he turned back to the tree trunk, gripping it with both of his hands.

“Besides,” Arthur continued, “you like this, don't you boy?”

The words -- and the knowledge of yes, yes he did like it -- sent a jolt of arousal through John's gut. He groaned despite himself. Arthur, behind him, laughed. 

“How about that? John Marston, ain't got a word to say.” 

The belt cracked again, lighting a line of fire across John's cheeks. John yelped, but stayed mostly still, digging his fingernails into the bark of the tree. 

“Tell me you like it, boy,” Arthur suggested. His voice was soft, but John could hear the desire in it. Knowing that Arthur liked this too, was turned on by it too, made it briefly difficult for John to think in a coherent way.

“I --” John started, but was interrupted by another slap of the belt, this time across the backs of his thighs just below his ass. “Goddamn it, Arthur!”

“Tell me,” Arthur repeated. 

“I like it!” John half-yelled before he could earn another hit. “I like it, you goddamn fuckin’ hard-headed -- ” 

The belt fell twice in quick succession, then twice more. A distant part of John's mind noted that Arthur seemed to be a deft hand at wielding it. The rest of his mind was occupied by the white flash of pain that rolled through him, clearing out everything besides itself, so when he came back to himself he found he'd forgotten about everything else -- the bungled job, Dutch's anger, everything -- except that pain. And the anticipation of more.

He hung his head and moved his hands up the tree, taking a more secure grip. Almost presenting himself. He heard Arthur take a shaky breath behind him and felt a wash of pleasure. Yes. This was good. This was what he needed -- what they both needed.

Now the lashes began in earnest, Arthur seemingly having warmed himself up. He made an effort to land each blow in a slightly different place. Some landed on the backs of John’s thighs, making him flinch, but he remained in place, taking each hit. 

John’s world narrowed to the sight of the tree in front of him, tiny rivers of green moss creeping up the cracks in the bark; to the feel of it under his palms and fingers and the sweat running down his face and back; the involuntary sounds he made every time the belt landed and his breath, panting; the warmth and throb of his ass and the backs of his legs, pleasure pooling and rising in his gut and cock with each slap, until they began to run together and it was just a soft hum of pain and pleasure mingled, making his body tremble and yearn. 

And the sound of Arthur's own breathing, heavy and harsh.

The blows began to come faster, harder, until John was clutching the tree like a drowning man and half-yelling, his cock hard as a stone, and then suddenly they stopped and Arthur was there instead, warm hands on his warmer skin in a way that was almost unbearable, sliding between his legs to touch him, rough but that was what John wanted -- needed -- no kindness left, no softness to leave him doubting. He could feel movements behind him against his ass that told him Arthur was jerking himself off too, shuddering breaths in his ear as he stroked John. It didn't take long for either of them, a few desperate moments aching for release, and then John was crying out, voice hoarse and broken, as the white wave of pleasure crested and he spent himself, shuddering and hips bucking, onto the tree and the dirt and Arthur's hand, and he felt a hot wetness against his ass and Arthur was there, too, groaning and subsiding and holding him as they both slid down into the waiting lap of the tree.

*

They wandered back into camp some hours later, after finding a nearby stream and sharing some time just sitting together by a small fire, John between Arthur's legs, back cushioned against Arthur's chest, passing Arthur's flask of whiskey back and forth. John was walking more or less upright, and able to ignore the raised eyebrows from Dutch and Pearson's comment about hearing “strange noises” coming out of the forest. 

It wasn't until John went to mount his horse and had to stop for a moment in the saddle, breathing down the pain and the memories of what they'd done, and glanced up and saw Arthur watching him with a secret smile on his lips, that he realised just what Arthur had meant by showing him an “inconvenience”.

He shook his head, resolving to find Arthur again later and see if he had some of that ointment he'd been carrying around a while. 

If he was going to be inconvenienced, he was at least going to enjoy it.


End file.
